


Hotel Stairs/Stares

by TearCatcher



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 03:53:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10779018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearCatcher/pseuds/TearCatcher
Summary: A fictional interpretation of the song "Xo"





	Hotel Stairs/Stares

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the April 2017 [Fall Out Boy Creations Challenge](http://fobcc.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. The theme was "your favorite song". I've never written angst before but this song requires it! Title comes from the song, of course. Shoutout to rosiedoesfic for looking up the original liner notes to _From Under the Cork Tree_ and discovering that, in a very Wentzian fashion, Pete used both "stairs" and "stares"

Pete combs the crowd in the dank, hazy club. He doesn’t care about the band that’s playing on the stage, although they’re ostensibly the reason he’s there tonight. Lots of people want him to come check out their bands now. Lots of people are suddenly his friends now, and way better friends than he ever remembers them being. Being in a breaking band with a record deal has given him the superficial popularity boost that he expected, but he somehow never expected it to feel this hollow.

He’s really just there to get fucked up, and he’s succeeding spectacularly. It’s funny how nights like these always start with people buying him a drink or two, and then he ends up buying for seemingly half the goddamn club. He’s only back in town for a few days before Fall Out Boy hits the road again, and he wants distracted as much as possible while he’s there. Because while there’s no distracting him from Patrick while they’re shoulder-to-shoulder in vans and during interviews and on stage, he sure as hell can try to forget his existence, however temporarily, when he’s not around.

He pulls out his phone to check the time, and sees three missed calls in a row from the very person he wants distracted from. At first, Patrick had tried single calls throughout the day and night, but now he had changed tactics, blasting Pete with a series of calls in the hopes that he would pick up. He quit leaving voicemails, too, although that could be because Pete’s mailbox was finally full. Pete doesn’t know; he hasn’t been checking them.

It’s been over an hour since Patrick’s last call. Pete’s eyes dart around and he impulsively swivels, barging his way through the crowd to a spot against the wall. It’s far too noisy for a conversation, between the drunken crowd and the music pumping through the club’s shitty sound system, but Pete’s not interested in having a conversation anyway.

He selects Patrick’s name and puts his ear to the speaker. The phone rings and rings, and Pete plugs the other ear and strains to hear when it finally picks up. Voicemail. Perfect.

“Do you love me, or do you just feel sorry for me?” is all Pete says after the tone. He snaps his phone shut, and returns to his companions for the evening, getting re-welcomed like the Current (Sh)it Boy that he is.

Another round (or maybe two) of drinks, and Pete is more restless than ever. The excess energy that didn’t get burned off in the shitty excuse for a pit at tonight’s show is making his skin crawl, but his mind is too foggy to know what to do with it. He’s not happy with his present company - they have nothing interesting or important to say, and do nothing to soothe his nerves - so he scans the crowd restlessly, not even sure who or what he’s looking for. Someone to fight, someone to fuck? Who knows. He’s lacking coordination, but it could go either way.

He freezes when he picks out a familiar angelic face, with an even more familiar glower on it. Patrick locks eyes with Pete and begins marching purposefully toward him. Even though he’s small, he’s exuding a “don’t fuck with me vibe”, and it seems like the crowd parts around him.

“If you knew what was good for you, you’d leave right now,” Pete says rapidly, and he can see Patrick’s frown deepening as he tries to figure out what Pete is saying.

“Patrick, what are you doing here?” he asks a moment later, when Patrick reaches him. Funnily enough, none of his companions even notice that the newcomer is in fact the lead singer of the band they all claim to admire. It’s the kind of thing that pisses Pete off - Patrick not getting the recognition he so richly deserves - but right now he’s too busy trying to focus on Patrick’s face and determining why he showed up at this shithole club out of the middle of nowhere.

“Where the fuck have you been, asshole?” Patrick asks, growling his demand into Pete’s ear because he doesn’t want to make a scene.

“Here,” Pete says, baffled.

Patrick grabs him by the elbow and pulls him outside. Pete didn't realize how much he was craving fresh air until he gets a lungful of it. “I have been trying to get ahold of you for the past two days! You’d think you could’ve tried returning my calls in between going out and getting shitfaced!”

All of the pent up energy Pete has comes rushing out at once, and he rushes to get in Patrick’s face. “Why the fuck do you even care?”

Patrick places two large, firm hands on Pete’s chest. He pushes him back just enough to look him dead in the eye. “Because I love you, asshole,” he grits through his teeth, then pushes him sharply against the wall. Pete’s shoulders hit with a thud and the back of his head bounces off of it.

Pete shakes his head vehemently, even though it makes his vision swim. “You don’t love me, you just feel sorry for me!” he screams, lunging at Patrick again, but his reaction is so delayed Patrick steps back easily and Pete only stumbles, landing on his knees on the sidewalk.

Patrick helps him up, but Pete jerks away when he tries to examine his knee, bloodied through his worn jeans. Pete sags back against the wall and looks at Patrick miserably. All of Patrick's anger has evaporated, and the pitying look on his face is too much for Pete to stand.

“Why can’t it be both, Pete?” Patrick asks quietly.

Pete covers his now aching head with his hands. “It can never be both.”

When Pete’s hands slide off his face, Patrick is holding out the keys to his car like a peace offering. “Come home with me,” he says.

*****  
“You are a rock god, Patrick Stump!” Pete yells as they leave the stage for the final time that night. Tonight they got called back onstage for an actual encore. The audience was frenetic, causing a feedback loop that the band fed into. Patrick had been on fucking _fire_ \-- Pete was drawn to him magnetically, and every time he completed a feat such as jumping off an amp or bouncing off Andy’s riser, he went straight to Patrick, recharging with body contact, before reeling away again. 

Patrick shakes his sweaty head, but he’s smiling. Pete knows he feels it too.

“I don't think a god would sweat this much,” Patrick remarks wryly, pulling at his thoroughly soaked shirt. “I'm gonna have to change before we go back to the hotel.”

Any of the other guys would have stripped their shirt off right there in front of everybody, but of course Patrick retrieves his backpack from the tiny communal dressing room and heads for the backstage bathroom. Pete waits a moment before following him. He's not sure why; he's just reluctant to let Patrick out of his sight. He wants to talk about the show and bask in their magnificence together.

The bathroom is meant for one person. Instead of a proper door, it has a cracked brown plastic accordion partition, with a hook and latch the only way to secure it. Pete can see the dim light from the bathroom shining through the holes. _Man, this place is a dump,_ Pete thinks. One day they'll play larger venues with gleaming white bathrooms with showers and everything. He gets closer to examine the cracks, and realizes that through them he can see an expanse of skin. His eyes widen and his breath catches. He knows he shouldn't, but he creeps forward until his eye is closer to the biggest hole in the partition. _Oh shit._ There's Patrick in all his shirtless glory, the expanse of his back flushed pink yet unblemished. Pete watches, entranced, as Patrick stands there for a moment and splashes cold water on his bare torso before rummaging through his backpack and pulling out a dry shirt. Pete admires the way Patrick’s back moves and his arms stretch as he pulls the shirt over his head. Part of watching him is the thrill of the forbidden, sure, but Pete would love to know if all that skin would feel as soft and pleasing under his hands as he imagines it would.

Pete is so entranced by the spectacle before him that he doesn’t notice the guys coming down the narrow hallway with an amp. He gets nudged into the partition with an “oof”.

Patrick flings it open and narrows his eyes at him. “Pete, what the fuck are you doing?”

Pete’s initial response is stunned silence and what must be an extremely guilty look.

Luckily, Patrick is still high off performing and just laughs. “Were you watching me dress like some kind of creepy peeping tom?” he asks. He’s teasing, Pete realizes. He doesn’t actually think Pete would be interested in that.

Well, fuck that. Pete is _so_ interested in that. He gives Patrick a challenging look and raises his eyebrows. “Something like that.”

Now Patrick looks uncertain, yet still amused. Without thinking, Pete rushes forward and Patrick stumbles a bit, backing up against the sink. Pete swiftly pulls the partition shut and drops the hook into the latch before spinning around to face him.

“You were so hot out there tonight,” he says, looking into Patrick’s face.

If possible, Patrick’s flushed, sweaty face gets even redder. “You’re the hot one, not me,” he mutters, turning away from Pete's gaze.

“It turns me on to watch you,” Pete tells him, in a low, even voice. “Whatever you’re doing.”

“Pete,” Patrick says in a warning voice, but there’s a clear undercurrent of longing. He looks from side to side, but there’s nowhere else for him to go. He clutches the sides of the sink.

“If you don’t believe me, put your hand between my legs,” Pete says softly, stepping closer. His heart's pounding from adrenaline and his breathing is rapid, but he knows he has to play this calmly and gently.

Patrick stays backed against the sink, but he’s looking at Pete again, his eyes wild and wary. He’s breathing just as hard as Pete is, his lush, pink mouth hanging open slightly.

“Do it,” Pete urges, in barely more than a whisper. He runs his hand down Patrick’s arm, stopping just before he reaches Patrick’s hand, which is gripping the edge of the sink.

Patrick looks terrified. The muscles in his arms twitch under Pete’s hand, and his knuckles are white. Pete gently traces Patrick’s wristbone with his finger, looking at him imploringly. Patrick’s eyes dart up and down from Pete’s face several times, trying to look where Pete wants him to touch, but Pete is standing too close for him to see. Pete can feel his hard on straining at the front of his tight jeans, and he’s standing so that he’s only inches away from touching Patrick. He's surprised that Patrick can’t feel the heat radiating from it, because his dick is throbbing with their proximity.

Staring at Pete, looking shocked at what he’s doing, Patrick loosens his grip from the sink and places his flattened hand first on Pete’s stomach, then slides it down until it’s shaping the outline of his throbbing cock. Pete tries to stay still and not buck into it, succeeding in only moving his hips minutely.

“I’m hard for you,” he murmurs, leaning his face in a little closer. “Are you hard for me, too?”

Patrick closes his eyes and then his mouth. Pete watches his adam's apple bob as he swallows, wanting to put his own mouth all over that sweaty neck. Patrick sinks his teeth into his plump lower lip and barely nods, eyes still closed. His hand is still covering Pete’s dick, not squeezing or exploring; just a hot, heavy presence that Pete is fighting not to grind on.

Pete leans in further, bracketing his arms on either side of Patrick against the sink, and slides his cheek against Patrick’s until he can nose under his ear. Patrick smells like sweat, the grime of the stage from the old venue, and faintly metallic. Pete breathes deeply so the scent saturates his nostrils. “Can I feel?” he breathes, his lips moving over Patrick’s neck.

Patrick replies with a jerky nod of his head that matches his erratic breathing, and Pete reaches as far down Patrick’s thigh as he can, cupping the outside of it and running his hand all the way up between his legs, where he finds Patrick just as hard and hot as he is himself. Patrick is frozen in place, but his cock twitches under Pete’s hand through the sweat soaked denim.

Pete moans quietly as he begins slowly mouthing along Patrick’s jaw, intending to make his way to his mouth, when the rattling of the partition makes them both jump. “Patrick, are you in there?” Joe calls.

Patrick, who has escaped Pete’s clutches and retreated to the furthest corner of the bathroom, yells back, “Yeah, I’m coming!” He shoots Pete a dark look when he smirks at Patrick’s choice of words.

“Have you seen Pete?” Joe asks, and Patrick looks at Pete in a panic.

“I’m in here too!” Pete calls immediately. “We both had to piss!”

“Fuckin’ weirdos,” Joe remarks. “Hurry the fuck up!”

Pete adjusts himself and Patrick looks away. “Hey,” Pete says, as he reaches to unlatch the hook. He licks Patrick's sweat off his lips. 

Patrick looks at him warily. He’s still breathing hard and his face is flushed and sweaty, but no one else would be able to tell it’s from anything but the exertion of being on stage. “What?” 

“To be continued,” Pete says, a dark promise in his voice. “Whatever it takes.” He fixes Patrick with a smoldering look before he opens the door.

When they get to the hotel, Patrick is subdued, doing his best to ignore Pete completely. Pete tries not to watch him too closely, and he catches Joe and Andy looking at Patrick in concern as the band shuffles around their shared room, taking turns showering and staking their own small spaces, going through laundry and accusing one another of eating the last of the Doritos.

Finally, when things have settled down for the night, Pete approaches Patrick as he’s exiting the bathroom, having opted to take the last shower. Patrick is in an old pair of gray sweatpants and wearing a faded Green Day shirt, his collar wet from his dripping hair. “Patrick, can I talk to you outside?” he asks, and he’s proud of how light and casual his voice sounds.

Patrick, however, is anything but casual. He seems tense and nervous, and barely looks at Pete.

When the door shuts behind them, Pete looks up and down the hall and his gaze fixes on the door to the stairs. “Let’s go out here.”

Patrick obediently follows Pete down the hall and out the door to the hotel stairs. The stairwell is deserted and cool. Patrick sits down on one of the blue-and-gold ratty carpeted steps, crosses his arms, and looks up at Pete from under his hair.

Pete drops to his knees in front of him, placing a hand under his chin to force him to look at him. “Hey,” he says softly. Patrick slowly brings his eyes to Pete’s, and Pete forgets everything he had planned to say, all the assurances he had for Patrick, all the praise he was going to heap upon him, because he gets lost in the crystalline blue of Patrick's eyes, which is offset by a ring of orange that he never noticed before. As close as he tries to get to Patrick, as much as he forces himself into his personal space, they've never gazed into each other's eyes like this. 

Patrick's face is less guarded now, his mouth is partially open - he has that awed look on his face again - and Pete can hear how fast he's breathing. Pete's heart is pounding, his entire body feels flushed, and he knows he has some important things to say to Patrick, but right now all he wants is to feel that soft pink mouth on his. 

When Pete leans in, he’s surprised that Patrick meets him halfway, seeming as eager as Pete is for their mouths to meet. Patrick’s mouth is as perfect for kissing as he imagined it would be, and Pete sucks his bottom lip between his own, releasing it with a delicious pop that makes Patrick moan softly before he practically dives to kiss Pete again.

Pete has wormed his way between Patrick’s knees, but it’s hard to continue their frenzied kissing and make full body contact, so he begins to mouth along Patrick’s jaw like he had earlier in the club bathroom. He misses the salty taste of sweat on Patrick’s skin, but this time Patrick is yielding, leaning into him and making a low noise in his throat that goes straight to Pete’s dick. Pete presses himself flush against Patrick and opens his mouth against his neck, not biting or sucking, just tracing the soft skin with his lips and tongue. Patrick’s wearing sweatpants now, and it’s easy to feel how hard and hot he is against Pete’s stomach. Pete knows where he wants his mouth, _now_.

“Patrick, can I blow you?” he breathes under his ear, rubbing his belly back and forth against Patrick’s cock.

Patrick’s breathing is shaky and uneven. “Pete,” is all he says, but Pete can’t tell whether it’s warning, or desperation, or assent in the trembling of his voice.

“Please,” Pete whispers, and pulls Patrick’s earlobe into his mouth, giving him a preview of things to come. “I want to put my mouth all over you.” And he does. He would love to take Patrick inside and spread him out on the bed, devoting hours to exploring every part of him. But for now, this is the only intimacy they can have.

“Out here?” Patrick asks nervously.

Pete doesn’t even care about that. “It’s ass o’clock in the morning,” he assures him, running his hands along Patrick’s thighs. “No one is coming out here, I swear.” He makes his way back to Patrick’s mouth and licks his way inside, trying to kiss him as fast and filthy as possible. He pulls away and presses his forehead to Patrick’s, leaving him gasping.

“Fuck,” Patrick pants.

Pete grins, knowing victory is his. “Not now. But you can fuck my mouth, how about that?”

Patrick looks overwhelmed, throwing his head back and groaning, “Yeah.” Pete is quick to drop onto his heels and cup both of Patrick’s knees with his hands, while Patrick leans back against the stairs. Patrick’s sweatpants are loose, so gaining access is not going to be difficult, but when Pete slides his fingers under the waistband of his underwear, Patrick startles him by putting his hand over his.

Pete looks up at him, confused. Patrick is looking at him sternly, even though his face is flushed and his pupils are dilated. “Pete, you can’t tell _anyone_ about this, okay?”

Pete shapes Patrick’s cock through his sweatpants and squeezes. The material is so thin he can feel the blood pulsating under his hand. Patrick closes his eyes and he can’t see that Pete has his fingers crossed on the hand he’s sliding up the inside of his thigh. “Okay, Patrick.”

Pete wants to take his time and savor the feel, taste and smell of Patrick, but that’s going to have to wait. ( _If you ever get this chance again,_ says a sinister voice in the back of his head that he does his best to ignore.) He wants to give Patrick something he will always remember, but he has a feeling Patrick will never forget this moment any more than Pete will. It’s over fast; Pete’s mouth is flooded with bitter warmth, and Patrick is staring at him, stunned.

Pete sits back to make sure Patrick sees that he swallows, but before his grin is even able to fully form, Patrick jumps up and rushes past him, the emergency exit door slamming behind him.

Pete stares at the door for a moment after it slams shut. He clenches his fists and spins around, looking for something to hit or kick, but instead he draws in a deep breath and lets out a low, forceful growl. He’s angry and he’s hurt but worst of all, he’s still incredibly turned on. He opens his pants and jacks off dry into his fist. He’s on such a hairtrigger already it only takes a few pulls before he comes, ejaculating but not orgasming. He mindlessly sticks his hand under his hoodie and wipes it on the shirt underneath before storming out the door, intent on accosting Patrick. The hotel is on a hill by itself on a frontage road, and Pete circles the nearly empty parking lot in a half-blind rage, already anticipating the confrontation since he figures Patrick couldn’t have gone very far. 

Patrick is nowhere to be found.

After a few fruitless laps around the building, Pete stumbles back through the front door of the hotel, spilling into the lobby. Ignoring the stares from the front desk clerk, he heads back to the room and pounds rapidly on the door.

Andy opens it quickly, looking pissed. “Pete, what the fuck are you doing? Are you trying to get us kicked out?” he hisses.

Pete walks right past him, barely paying him any mind on the trajectory to his backpack. He faintly registers him asking, “Where’s Patrick?” as he rushes into the bathroom.

He locks the door and collapses against it, sliding down to the floor. He can still taste Patrick in his mouth. He pulls a notebook out of his backpack, and almost screams when it takes him a moment of frantic searching to find a pen in the mess at the bottom, but soon he’s scribbling all over the first blank page he finds, pouring his heart out to Patrick in black ink in his absence. “Love never wanted me,” he writes, “but I took it anyway.” He writes angry words, too, wishing terrible harm upon Patrick for making him feel so abandoned and used, words he knows he’ll regret even as he’s writing them.

Pete’s not sure how much time passes, but his hand is aching and so is his head when he hears the door to the hotel room shut. He strains to hear the muffled voices on the other side of the door. Patrick’s is definitely among them.

There’s a soft rap at the door. “Pete,” Patrick says lowly. “Let me in.” His voice is authoritative, and Pete doesn’t even think about it before stashing his notebook in his backpack and unlocking the door, scooting out of the way just enough for Patrick to open it. When Patrick enters, Pete leans back to shut the door again, but curls up in a ball inside his hoodie, not looking up at him.

Patrick stands over him for just a moment. Pete hears him draw a long, even breath, then he says quietly, “I’m sorry, Pete.”

Pete wants to look up at him - he wants to see if Patrick’s face is as sincere as his voice sounds - but he’s not going to let Patrick off that easily. Feeling somewhat childlike, he tucks further into himself.

Patrick sits on the floor next to him. Pete can sense him reaching, then withdrawing, his hand. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I shouldn’t have run off like that, but I freaked out. I mean, I never...with a guy…and then there’s the band...” He trails off, sounding embarrassed.

Pete can feel his resolve crumbling. He’s drifting toward Patrick already. When Patrick cautiously reaches toward him, Pete flings himself into his solid warmth, molding up against him.

There are a lot of sorries, and promises not to tell, and assurances of love. Patrick says maybe if they weren’t in a band together...the band has to come first.

When Pete finally pulls away, his face is puffy and the front of Patrick’s hoodie is soaked. Pete pokes at the wet cloth with a finger and gives Patrick a watery smile.

“Thanks for being my tearcatcher,” he says. He stands up and pulls Patrick to his feet with an extended hand. In the room, Joe is sound asleep. Andy looks up from his book and watches them exit the bathroom but doesn’t say anything. They crawl into “their” bed together, exhausted, and Patrick wraps Pete up in his arms as always. _This is enough,_ Pete thinks. _It has to be._

The next morning, when they’re all packed up and leaving the room, Pete lags behind, thinking about the notebook in his backpack. He doesn’t trust himself to not show the previous night’s scrawled rants to Patrick one day. He could do it in a fit of anger, or while in the throes of self loathing. He yanks out the notebook, quickly locating and tearing out the offending pages, leaving long, jagged strips of chads down the side, then glances around before setting his sights on the particle board bureau in between the beds. Pete folds the paper in half and leaves it between the pages of the bible in the drawer.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to MsPeppernose for the beta, and thanks to the fobcc for inspiring me to write this! Find me on [tumblr](https://coastingon-potential.tumblr.com/)


End file.
